Good WIll Hunting Goes to Mars
by Othalla
Summary: "I expected you to just, go to New York or LA or whatever! Not Pluto!" "Well," Will says. "Technically I'm going to Mars, which is like, much closer. And an actual planet. Which Pluto is not, even though New Mexico's denial back in the early two thousands was very heartfelt and moving and Pluto Planet Day is a legit awesome name for a legit awesome holiday."


Summary:

"I expected you to just, go to New York or LA or whatever! Not fucking Pluto!"

"Well," Will says. "Technically I'm going to _Mars_ , which is like, muchcloser. And an actual planet. Which Pluto is not, even though New Mexico's denial back in the early two thousands was very heartfelt and moving and Pluto Planet Day is a legit awesome name for a legit awesome holiday which we are so celebrating."

Chuckie puts his hands over his eyes and groans. "Will, that is so not the point."

Chuckie can't remember a time when Will did not give him a headache just by being Will. Which makes it bout a total of thirty years' worth of heacaches at this point, which is, if you were to ask literally anyone, thrirty years too many.

But that's cool. That's cool. Chuckie is so very cool with it and is actually, masochistically, looking forward to at the very least another thirty years of more headaches because he's planning to spend about that much time with Will.

Will, of course, does his best for the headaches to turn into migraines at every chance he gets, because that's the kind of person Will is. Chuckie is even having one right now, closing in at his eyes and pulsing at his temple, an aching reminder to get drunk and pretend that Will is a sane human being who doesn't have more wit than he has sense.

Really, Chuckie's main emotional state when it comes to Will is despair. Despair for Will ever getting his head out of his ass and do something with himself. Despair for Will's complete lack of skill when it comes to actual real life relationships. Despair for Will's mouth and the trouble it's sure to get him in when he's too far away for Chuckie to help him punch his way out of it. Despair over Will's inability to find something that he wants to do, instead of just being obnoxiously good at stuff and get bored within a few months and then try the next thing.

Now, Chuckie will have to come to terms with the fact that he's gonna spend the next however many months despairing over Will being stupid and probably cut his own foot off _in space_.

"Do you have a deathwish?" Chuckie asks, because that seems to be a very reasonable question at this point in time.

When Chuckie sporadically attended high school his physics teacher had spent hours trying to impart his knowledge of _the Universe_ onto twenty something bored and uninterested kids who wouldn't remember shit and would all bomb the exam as a consequence, and Will, who would remember everything but still fail the exam because he'd rather smoke a joint than attend it. At the grand age of too goddamn old,what Chuckie actually knows about space is the simple stuff: it's very big, it's very dark and it's pretty empty. Stars are basically flashlights that regurlarly explode and shit, and that one movie where Bruce Willis is gonna save the Earth with his big drill is a lie and should not be trusted to provide scientifically proven facts.

Chuckie does not trust space. He definitely doesn't trust Will in it.

"Nah," Will says. "Space is just cool, man."

"I'm the main beneficiary on your will, right? Dibs on your car."

"Shut up, Morgan," Will and Chuckie say at the same time, rote and used to it.

"What?" Morgan protests. "It's a nice car."

"And you're a dick who don't know how to zip his pants," Chuckie says unimpressed. Morgan looks down at his crotch and swears, hurriedly zipping himself up. "Please tell me you remembered to wash your hands."

Morgan is quiet for a moment, clearly thinking back on it. Then he tries to surreptitiously wipe his hands on his thighs.

"Dude, gross." Will makes a face. "No way in hell I'm letting you have my car. Or anything of mine, really. Ever."

Morgan scowls and crosses his arms like the petulant immature teenager he still is at just shy of too goddamn old. "Whatever."

"Earth is cool," Chuckie says, trying to come back to the point. "It also comes with less a chance of death by fiery rocket explosions, which is even cooler."

Because Will never did grow out of being a little shit, he just grins. "Well," he drawls, "statistically-"

"And also," Chuckie says loudly, talking over him, "it comes with fire trucks and rescue people, which are _nice to have_ in case of fiery rocket explosions. There are no ambulances in space, Will. No ambulances."

"There is a live in actual doctor, though. Which is very cool. He's very pretty, too. Nice arms, nice eyes. Great ass."

"Oh my god," Chuckie groans and throws his hands up above his closes his eyes for one long moment in face of Will's everything. "You really are going to die and space won't even have to lend you a hand. You're gonna hit on the doctor, you're gonna embarrass yourself, he's gonna wanna kill you. Great."

"Hey!" Will protests, clearly affronted. "What's with the lack of faith?"

"I can't save you from yourself if you're in space, Will. You're doomed, face it. Might as well give Morgan everything right now and be done with it, save us the trouble of dealing with lawyers." Chuckie would throw his hands up in the air to emphasize this but he's driving. He makes do with his face.

"For the record," Morgan begins from the back like the weasel he is, "I approve of this plan."

"For the last time, Morgan, I am not giving you my car!" Will says loudly, leaning back between the front seats to look straight at Morgan. Morgan raises his hands in the air and looks warily between them.

"I will get you that car, Morgan, because if this idiot thinks killing himself is a good idea we might as well kill his car right along with him!" Chuckie says even louder and then the car goes very quiet.

Morgan raises his hands higher and sinks as far back in his seat as he can. Will just gapes.

Chuckie would appreciate the silence, but, well. Silence never bodes well with Will. He always manages to come back wittier and with better sounding arguments that somehow never fails in succeeding to get Chuckie on his side of things.

Finally, Will draws a breath and Chuckie braces himself for the worst, prepared not to go over easy.

"It was your idea," Will says accusingly, crossing his arms over his chest.

What?

"Space? What do you mean my idea?"

"Well, maybe not word for word your idea, but you're the one who got me thinking about it so really, ultimately it is your fault." Will harrumphs, like a nonverbal 'so there'.

"Will," Chuckie says. "You really need to give me more to go on here. Because I've got no idea what you're on about."

"You told me, and I quote, that I was 'aiming too low, should get off your lawn and also take a position somewhere else before the head of my department really made up her mind to kill me'." Will spreads his arms, emphasizing. "And guess what, I did. So there, you have no one to blame but yourself in this dude."

Chuckie is too close to getting an aneurism to be driving so he finds a space by the sidewalk and takes it a bit less smooth than he maybe should have. But like everyone could give him a break, for reals.

"I expected you to just, go to New York or LA or whatever! Not fucking Pluto!"

"Well," Will says. "Technically I'm going to _Mars_ , which is like, muchcloser. And an actual planet. Which Pluto is not, even though New Mexico's denial back in the early two thousands was very heartfelt and moving and Pluto Planet Day is a legit awesome name for a legit awesome holiday which we are so celebrating."

Chuckie puts his hands over his eyes and groans. "Will, that is so not the point."

"No the point is that you don't want me going to Mars, which is happening, and also you don't trust flirting skills, which is offensive. Like, who wouldn't want to hit this?" He gestures at himself indignantly. "This is prime real estate, buddy."

"Prime real estate my ass," Chuckie mutters.

"Kinky," Morgan pipes in with, because he's Morgan and just can't help himself.

He sighs, resigning himself. Really, Chuckie should know better than to expect anyone he knows to be a reasonable, sensible adult. They're just not equipped to handle that.

"I'm taking the car," Chuckie says as he guides his own back onto the road. Morgan pouts and Will looks at him inquisitively. "I'm taking it and if you're late I swear to God I'll paint it pink and give it to Cordelia down the road and I'll decorate it with as many ponies as she could ever want."

When Chuckie looks over Will is full on grinning, his eyes barely more than slivers. "Better make it back then," he says.

"Yeah," Chuckie agrees. "You goddamn better."


End file.
